


Of Copper and Gold

by Strigimorphaes



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brief appearance by maglor, First Kiss, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hair Kink, Love Confessions, M/M, Scars, Sexual Content, Unmarried Fingon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-12 19:56:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3353354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strigimorphaes/pseuds/Strigimorphaes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros resides in Himring, planning and protecting. One evening, Fingon arrives with an urgent matter on his mind - and a friendship that has lasted centuries may change in the course of a night.<br/>Also, Fingon really likes Maedhros' hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Copper and Gold

**Author's Note:**

> In case you need to brush up on it: "Nelyafinwë" is one of Maedhros' quenya names along with "Russandol". Russandol means "Copper-top" and is an epessë, in this case a nickname used by friends/family.
> 
> This is set in FA Year of the Sun 467, so the last major battle was the Dagor Bragollach and the whole business with Luthien and Beren was finished in 466. I'm going by the version of canon where Fingon is not the Gil-Galad Dad and as such has no wife or children. All timeline data I got from wikipedia -v(ouo)v-

 

Maedhros walks alone and he walks swiftly. His lands lie open before him: gentle mist rolls in over the hills while the sky grows so heavy with color above. The hilltops are islands in an ocean of pale silver, wisps of vapor enveloping the faraway trees. He does not allow the leaves to quiver and the dew drops to fall when he passes them by; no animals are frightened when he crosses their paths. This place is his. It is a pale imitation of lost Valinor, but it is still alike and it will suffice, at least, when hours upon hours of planning and writing tire him out, when he feels like his life is made of stone walls and words that are never quite enough. The birds sing for him here, hidden in the jet-black branches.

He chose to live here so that he could protect and guard, not because of how the it looked. Still, he can't help but notice how pretty it can be, and he finds himself wandering more and more when he needs to clear his mind.

Tonight is definetely one of those occasions.

He is expecting guests.

When he looks up towards his fortress, he sees gray stone, and, as he gets closer, the dark windows, the blue glass. Himring,  _the Ever-cold,_ lives up to its name. Maedhros feels like he needs his cape more outside than inside its sturdy walls, for the stone absorbs the chill of every night and radiates it throughout the day. Roofs creak under the snow in winter, a constant reminder of the harsh weather outside, and even in the summer gusts of cool air move like a living breeze through the halls. 

He walks through the settlement that surrounds it, but nobody takes much notice of him. He does not take off his hood or draw back the cloth of the cape when he goes nears the gate; does not reveal either his face nor the missing hand. Elves in armor by the gates nod at him when he enters the fortress itself.

It never feels like coming home.

Home is not a _place_  for the sons of Feanor, hasn't been for a long time. Maybe it's because they know that wherever they settle, it won't last forever - sooner or later the oath will claw at them again and drive them onwards. Sometimes Maedhros thinks that he has found it for a couple of hours. It still hides deep in the woods when he rides with Amrod and Amras. It waits in the clear blue of Curufinwë's eyes when he stops whispering in Celegorm's ear and instead looks at Maedhros openly. It's there in Caranthir's voice when he laughs softly like he used to, but those times are rare.

Maglor still resides in Himring. He has nothing to go back to, for Glauring's fire has ruined what had been his domain by the river Gelion. There's some memory of home in Maglor's singing, too, but as of lately his songs have been about loss and silmaril-light instead of all the myriad of other subjects he used to sing of. Yet Maedhros is thankful that he sings at all. His voice is stronger than the aimless breaths of cold air, and it is carried to Maedhros wherever he might be within Himring's walls. He closes his eyes, then, listens. Knows that Maglor will be the one writing tales about them when all of this is over.  

Right now, Maedhros' hand follows the smooth grooves of the wall as he walks down a hallway, footsteps echoing. The windows are tall and arched, and behind them is only the gray twilight. The glass is the work of artisans: in the main hall there are mosaics showing his family crest. There are gobelins on the walls and carvings in the wood, but the further in one gets, the more sparse everything becomes. In his chambers, he exchanges his clothes with finer attire, but somehow the lighter silk weighs far heavier on his shoulders. He places the copper circlet on his head, looking in the mirror all the while. He brushes aside a few red strands of hair. Then he heads back outside, out onto the walls of the fortress.

It is getting darker, and he sees the torches in the distance come closer. He leans onto the smooth stone, stares down, listens intently for the sound of trumpets and horses. When he hears the first voices from below, he smiles. 

The horses come closer and the voices are fair and many - there must be about twelve or fifteen elves in the party. Maedhros strains his hearing. There is one voice in particular he wants to hear.

Fingon speaks softly, but Maedhros knows the lulls and peaks of his voice, the gentle rhythm of the words. They speak flowing Sindarin below, discussing how long they will stay and how far they will travel after that. The gate is opened slowly - it's a heavy thing meant to safeguard first and foremost. Other places they are mostly for show, made of soft, polished metal. Not here.

As he hears his guests enter the courtyard, Maedhros goes to greet them, and from somewhere inside the fortress, Maglor comes too. He is dressed in blue and sliver, and for a moment he looks like a ghost. Then he lays a hand on Maedhros shoulder and suddenly becomes tangible.

"Had a good walk?" he asks. 

”I did," Maedhros answers. "...I hope you'll let me take the lead when it comes to Fingon, brother."

”I will. We all know how fond you are of him. Handle this as you must.” Maglor looks at him cooly. Maedhros knows that Maglor, along with the rest of his brothers, hasn't been overly pleased by Maedhros' decision to give away the right to the crown they both expect to see on Fingon's head in a few moments. The hand on Maedhros' shoulder is firm, but betrays nothing about what Maglor might be thinking. He has a habit of keeping to himself.

They step out into the courtyard, into the evening air, and there, waiting for them, is Fingon at the head of his group. He wears light armor, but his hair is loose and long save for a few braids - and then there's the crown, as Maedhros expected.

At first glance the crown he wears is only a circlet, but one that sparkles and shines even in the low, orange light of torches. Upon closer inspection it is more than a band of metal – it is made of branches entwined, perfectly recreated in silver and inlaid with pale stones as if tiny stars were nestled between the fake leaves. The Noldor kings have had other crowns, it's true, but Maedhros finds this more pleasing than what Finwë wore in Valinor. 

His brother does not give anyone reason to think that he is bitter, though. He greets Fingon as is appropriate, bowing to his king and speaking Sindarin to him.

Maedhros would have liked to act less formal, but he can't, especially not in front of all the people surrounding them. He bows as well, speaks slowly and clearly, keeps his head high and leads them all inside. He takes them to a great hall where the fires are already lit and where food and drink is waiting the long oak tables. Fingon comes to his side and follows him to their seats at the very end of the room.

"I am glad to see you again," he says.

"And I you," Maedhros answers. 

Fingon's eyes seem to come alight, then, and he walks briskly even though he should have been tired by now. Maedhros figures he must have ridden long even by elven standards. Fingon's companions certainly give that impression, but it helps when they get to drink, and as they talk of the road with all it's dangers - orcs from the north and the natural hazards of northern Beleriand - Maedhros listens idly. They have passed through his brothers' lands, and that makes him curious, but in the end they say nothing that he does not already know.

He takes a seat in between Maglor and his guest, and for a while Fingon has his time to eat, observing the hall and Maedhros equally.

"Are you tired?" Maedhros asks. 

"It's not the ride today as much as it is the ride tomorrow that tires me," Fingon answers. "Just the thought of it..."

Maedhros only smiles in response and pours himself a glass of water. He doesn't want the influence of wine, however slight it may be, to cloud his judgement. He is a leader too.

He likes how Fingon, unlike almost everyone else, does not keep glancing at the stump of his right arm.

Maglor leans forward, his long fingers lacing together as he looks to Fingon. "Any news from the west?" he asks.

"Not much," Fingon answers, "Much of Doriath is still in disarray and there is, as always, unrest to the north."

"Unrest here, too," Maedhros says, steering the conversation away from the events that still lie sore in recent memory. The tale of Beren and Luthien has reached Himring where it has burrowed into him, the points of it poking his insides - the arrogance of Thingol, his brother's deeds in Nargothrond, his own desire for the silmaril. He knows Maglor has words, perfectly chosen the way only a poet can choose them, burning on his tongue about that matter, but Maedhros trusts him to keep silent. 

"I suppose the two of you must be kept busy," Fingon says.

"We protect the marches." Maglor says. "Though lately, it has mostly been me leading the warriors. My brother spends most of his time travelling and writing letters these days."

Fingon looks surprised for a moment, and Maedhros can't blame him: it is easy to forget that Maglor's Gap was held for centuries by an elf most known for his voice. 

"Perhaps we can speak later," Fingon says. "I would not mind knowing more about your forces - and besides, I have heard about the poetry you've written."

Maglor dosen't show it much, his face still and pale as ever, but Maedhros knows that he's probably happier than he lets on. Maglor likes to tell tales about himself and by himself. 

"But for now," Fingon continues, "If it does not offend you, I'm rather tired. I'd like to speak privately with Maedhros."

”You can speak freely here,” Maglor offers, his voice sonorous as ever. 

”I appreciate your hospitality, but still... I'd like to be with my old friend."

”I see,” Maglor says.

Maedhros rises from his chair, unable to help feeling a bit relieved that the conversation is over, that he dosen't have to be so on edge, caring about what his brother might say.

Fingon follows him wordlessy.

As they leave, Maedhros looks back to see a woman from Fingon's group approaching Maglor slowly, watches them start to talk about something that would matter if he wasn't distracted by the fact that Fingon appears to have something very urgent to tell him. He dosen't usually insist on being alone in this way, dosen't usually have that look in those eyes that distract Maedhros in probably unseemly ways. Together, they walk through Himring's hallways and stairwells, away from the noise of the great hall.

"Is this-"

"I think we might need to head to your chambers," Fingon interrups him.

Maedhros accepts that and continues. He keeps talking just to fill the silence.

"I think Maglor misses his old house. He  _did_  live there for four centuries before the dragon swept by."

"Not to mention the orcs," Fingon says. He walks beside Maedhros now, appearing as a solid, dark shape compared to his cousin in his light, flowing clothes. "You seem tense."

"It..." _It'll pass,_ Maedhros would usually say, but he knows that it won't. Fingon looks at him with old concern. "I lead my brothers," Maedhros continues, "I love them - some more than others - but I can't falter in front of any them,  not even gentle Maglor... I don't envy you having to keep up appearances in front of all the Noldor."

The words come so easily to him. 

Before Fingon can answer, Maedhros stops and opens the door to his private chambers, distracting both of them from the conversation. His room is warmer than the rest of Himring. The fireplace is constantly lit, bathing everything in an orange glow. While there is not much comfort or decoration, it is easy to see that the room is in use: the bed has been slept in, a nest of blankets still in disarray, and there are open books on the table and what seems like a hundred letters on his writing desk. The air smells of burning herbs.

Maedhros sighs contently, and he can tell that being here puts Fingon just as much at ease.

Fingon looks to Maedhros for permission and gets it, wordlessly, before he walks to the desk and looks at the letters.

"A sword I can handle," Maedhros shrugs, "But my handwriting won't be like it was with my right hand. Figures."

"At least you're getting practice." Fingon's hand traces the lines of tengwar on a particular piece of parchment.

"There's a lot of battle to prepare for. I'm trying to find some alliance, to forge something. Are there rumors of it yet?"

"Not everywhere, but the word is out." Fingon sighs softly. "It sounds good."

"It will be. " Maedhros pulls the chair out from under the writing desk and sits down. His hand unfurls in his lap.

Fingon stares absently out the window above the writing desk, out towards the distant blue hills. "...To rally all the races together."

"Beren and Luthien has taken one silmaril. If we work together, if we find unity among the Noldor - then we will take the rest. Your kingship will be remembered as the time where great battles were won." Maedhros is dully aware that his voice sounds strange though he can't place a finger on  _how_  exactly. "But I have a feeling that that was not what you wanted to talk about, was it? You're not here to get lost in war and politics." 

"You're right," Fingon sighs. He closes his eyes for a long second before speaking.  "I don't want to ruin this. I have... I have a bad feeling. An ill omen, a sense that tonight matters, if you understand me. There was another thing I wanted to talk to you about."

"Of course. But if I may say one last thing about the subject... The crown looks good on you."

This makes Fingon look at him again, his features softening. "You placed it there," he jokes. "If you don't mind I'd actually like to take it off now that we're alone."

"...Of course," Maedhros murmurs, watching Fingon remove the crown and carefully place it on the table. It still shines faintly. Maedhros relaxes his shoulders. He breathes. ”It's just the two of us, now.”

”Mhm.”

”It's easy like this."

"How so?" Fingon asks.

"I don't know. Less formal, maybe. More honest. Of course, a few thousand years will do that to a friendship."

"Indeed." Fingon's hands are growing restless, and he traces the edges of his sleeves with his fingertips, an old habit that Maedhros picks up on. "Tell me, Nelyafinwë, may I... do something?"

Maedhros' answer is belated; it takes him a little while to process being called by his old father-name. It sounds like groves in Valinor, like light only glimpsed in silmarils, like places he fears he will never see again but where he once walked with Fingon and happier, younger brothers. And he figures that that was Fingon's intention, because how can Maedhros deny him anything when he has called those days to mind?

"Yes," he answers, "but what?"

A smile on his lips, Fingon leans forward, reaching out for Maedhros who sits still. This was what he wanted; this was the seemingly urgent matter. Maedhros waits as Fingon slowly lifts the copper circlet away, the simple band of metal joining the priceless crown on the table. And then, slowly, he runs his fingers through Maedhros' hair. He's so careful, as if afraid of causing any pain at all, and he does not grab or hold - he just lets the smooth, red strands slip through his fingers. Fingon is closer now, but he's looking at Maedhros' hair and not his eyes and that puts distance between them still.

Maedhros knows Fingon's hands, remembers how they held him and traced the scars from Thangorodrim. He closes his eyes for just a second, It almost tickles, but mostly it just feels good. When he looks at his friend again, he sees the strangest expression on Fingon's face.

"You look like you've been wanting to do that for ages," Maedhros says,

Fingon withdraws his hand slowly, but it lingers by Maedhros' jaw - "I have," he admits, " _Ages_."

Maedhros gets a feeling that there is more that Fingon wants to say. He can still read him like an open book. Like a letter.

That doesn't mean it's an easier question to ask.

"Do you..." he begins, trailing off already.  _Do_ _you love me as more than a friend?_  he wants to say. He shakes his head, and instead of asking the question he reaches forward and takes Fingon's hand in his, looks into his eyes.

If Fingon doesn't want this, then he can withdraw his hand, pull away, call it a night, even.

All of Maedhros' thoughts stop as he is cut off by a mouth on his as Fingon pulls him closer. It's unexpected, but he does it so gently - there's a hand in his hair again and it is no longer just touching, it is holding but still not hurting him. There is nothing keeping Maedhros from pulling away. He doesn't.

This is something  _he_ wants, too.

Maedhros often feels like he never has time for anything but words. He must speak carefully, he must restrain and urge and convince and command.

But not now.

They don't need words for this.

His heart is beating faster and faster though he does not show it. Even as Fingon pulls away he stays close - practically in Maedhros' lap, pulled forward by gravity and Maedhros' light, guiding gestures. His weight and heat is close and comforting, and his fingers caress Maedhros' palm.

When Maedhros leans forward, their foreheads touch. And even though he's touched Fingon hundreds of times before, it's different now. Intimate. It pushes Fingon over some edge, makes the words spill out.

"I love you. I have loved you-" Fingon inhales sharply, "-for so long. I can't even say for how long exactly, only that at some point, I stopped wanting our friendship. I..."

"So did I," Maedhros says.

There is a moment of silence, a single heartbeat that feels longer than some of the years that Maedhros has lived through.

"I..." Fingon begins, but his voice trails off, maybe because he realizes that there are no words that can make the confession more complete. He just watches intently as Maedhros speaks again.

"I know haven't much to offer you," he says, and he knows that now isn't the time to speak of  _that,_  of all the terrible things that might happen, but the words come nonetheless - "I might have to choose the oath over you - and perhaps even then I would not know what would become of me when I die. I don't have much in Arda, my family is - well, you know."

"I know." Fingon does not let the gloomy words pull him down; he chuckles lightly, says "I am your family. I want to be with you regardless of that."

"Go only as far as you have to," Maedhros says. "And maybe... for tonight, don't go at all. Just stay here."

"I'll stay," Fingon says, withdrawing with a smile playing on his lips. "I can't tell if you're asking me to sleep with your or  _sleep_ _with you._ " 

"I'm starting to think just letting you brush my hair would suffice for you."

"Russandol,” Fingon remarks.  _Copper-top._  Then, he stands up and unhooks the clasp of his cape, letting the garment fall from his shoulders before draping it over the back of a chair. ”Either way, I'll be glad,” he says. There's joy in his voice, and Maedhros knows the feeling.

He finds wine for them and for a while, they just drink and speak very little. Outside, the darkness becomes complete. Perhaps there is nothing beyond the castle walls but quiet blackness, Maedhros thinks, only a mist that dulls all sound and stretches on forever. Doesn't matter either way; the only important thing is inside with him. Fingon laughs, and Maedhros doesn't know why, but maybe it's the wine or the pure  _relief_ they both feel.

Eventually, he feels the need to sleep. He tells Fingon this, says that he's tired and that he's had enough, there's so much to do  in the morning. Fingon nods, and when Maedhros starts removing the tunic – the heavy silk is suddenly much lighter now, smooth under his fingers - Fingon to turns to him, tries to help. Maedhros wonders if this is because Fingon remembers a time where he couldn't undress himself, but then he looks into Fingon's eyes and knows that it's not concern as much as it is curiosity. He wants to see Maedhros, that's all, and that's a nice change of pace.

Maedhros takes the tunic off without hesitation, smooths it over before putting it aside. And a little while later he's not exactly naked, because you can't be in Himring and still sleep without being cold, but he's undressed enough that Fingon is able to see the still unhealed wounds on his back, the scars along his stomach, the place where his right arm just _ends_. He sits down on the bed, watches his friend and feels the cold on his skin. The fire is dying.

Fingon isn't looking. He's dealing with garments meant to be worn under armor, unbuttoning and unlacing with his back turned. It makes it easier for Maedhros to talk.

”I'm glad it's you,” he says, and that makes Fingon stop fidgeting. It makes him sit down beside Maedhros, but he does not interrupt. ”You've seen everything already,” Maedhros continues, ”You  _know_. It's a relief – it's – well, it's easy with you. Always was.” Maedhros licks his lips. There's a pause, a moment before he speaks again. ”There's still a lot that hasn't healed since we last-"

”It's okay.” Fingon tilts his head. ”I know. You know me.”

The next time he speaks, it is barely a whisper as he pulls Maedhros with him down onto the bed, when his fingers burrow into copper-red hair.

”Don't worry.”

"Do you want to..."

"Yes."

Fingon guides Maedhros, who for once lets someone else take charge as everything dissolves into cool sheets and quick breathing. And Maedhros _does_  find it easy to relax as hands roam along his back down to his hips, removing the last of his clothing.

He finds himself watching Fingon who sits reclining against the head of the bed, and he takes in every angle, every pane of the body below him before laying down on his stomach, supporting himself on his elbows as he takes Fingon's length into his mouth. He's inexperienced, but he guesses Fingon is too – briefly, he thinks about whether the fact that their race only love rarely and make love even more rarely is a bad or a good trait, and then he stops, directs all his thoughts to the task at hand.

He goes by what seems to make Fingon feel good. He hears small, quick intakes of breaths above him, feels fingers digging into his hair again, gripping tighter when Maedhros does something especially pleasant – not to hurt or direct him, but simply because Fingon needs to hold on to something. ”You look beautiful,” he whispers, ”I know now why you've always said you like copper more than gold." 

Maedhros moves slowly, wanting to drag the moment out - after all, they have plenty of time. He does his best to draw more sounds from Fingon's throat, because it sounds like he's doing everything right-

Then he hears a half-whispered ”Don't,” and he draws back, the sheets rustling around them. For a moment Maedhros is very conscious of the sound, wondering if anyone might hear them. Then Fingon's hands guide him onto his back, switching their places, and Maedhros focuses on his partner again. ”I don't want to finish yet,” Fingon says.

Maedhros does not mind this development.

The feeling in his stomach – and lower than that – is new to him, but he figures he has felt small sparks of it before. He longs to be touched, and Fingon is more than willing to help him as he straddles Maedhros and grinds against him. His hand wraps around Maedhros' member, stroking him slowly. Even though the sensation is new to him, he feels like he has felt something like it before - it feels familiar, pleasant, spreading through his body from the one place they touch.  

”Does this feel good to you?” Fingon asks, stopping mid-movement and waiting for an answer. The pause is agonizing, the rythm breaking off too abruptly.

”Yes,” Maedhros says, and his voice hitches, growing brittle for a short moment, when Fingon resumes his work. ”I-”

”I don't think I've ever heard your voice  _do_  that,” Fingon says. He doesn't laugh, but there's laughter somewhere in his tone.

”I don't let it.”

”Don't worry.”

Maedhros tilts his head. ”I don't.”

He pulls Fingon in for a kiss. Then another. Then he can't kiss him any more because he needs breath, because Fingon pulls back and starts rocking back and forth again, every move of his hips and every touch of his hand bringing Maedhros closer, making his body grow warmer. Fingon's breaths grow heavy, too, hot on Maedhros' neck.

Maedthros doesn't say anything, he just tries to meet Fingon's thrusts. He places his hand almost reverently, fingers splayed, on his partner's hip to help him find the right tempo. 

”Like this,” he says, and he can't decide whether the next word should be  _less_ or _more,_ not that it matters when Fingon obliges and follows Maedhros' movements.

He feels everything steadily building inside him, and he figures Fingon feels it too - he shakes and almost stops, faltering, whispering  _Maedhros, Maedhros, Nelyo-_

Maybe that's what sends him over the edge. Maedhros finds his climax as he exhales once, feeling all the tension that he built up between them leave him. He's aware that he's digging his fingers into Fingon's side, that his nails are probably making red marks, but he doesn't care, doesn't have the capacity to care.

Fingon's hand slows to a stop, and for a moment neither of them move.

They just breathe and feel the tremors fade away together, sated and warm.

Maedhros takes in the sight: the king of the noldor, his cousin, his old friend sitting on his lap. And Fingon is naked, illuminated by orange candle-light, beautiful and in love with him. Maedhros knows this body: he has seen all the individual parts before, Fingon's naked chest, his arms, his back, but somehow – somehow it's different now. In this context and in this moment it's  _whole_  and it's  _perfect_  and nobody can convince him otherwise.

Fingon wipes off his hand on the sheet and lies down next to Maedhros, pulling him in so they lie side by side.

” _Melinyel_ ,” Maedhros whispers, and he hasn't spoken that word for ages. It's old Quenya, a forbidden language, but Fingon understands.

The king repeats the words quietly, as if getting used to the language all over again.  _I love you._

”Want to go to sleep?” Maedhros asks. Fingon's dark hair is spilling over his shoulders, and Maedhros reaches out to feel it. It's smooth between his fingers.

Fingon looks down, and this close, Maedhros can see his eyelashes flutter. ”I do,” he says. ”...Do you happen to have a washcloth?"

Maedhros hesitates to say yes and to get up, preferring the warmth of the bed and the sight of their bodies to the shadows that have appeared around the edges of the room. He somehow manages to stand and gather the cloth from a corner as well as a blanket. When he returns, he wonders if Fingon can feel the cold on his skin.

The candle still burns on Maedhros' nightstand.

And a little bit later, when he closes his eyes, all he can see is the color gold.

* * *

In the morning, Maedhros is the first to wake, cold after not sleeping with enough clothes on.

He dosen't really mind.

He pulls the blanket tighter and then he just lies there and watches Fingon, who still sleeps. His black hair is sprawling over the pillows and his arms, long and pale yet tinted slightly golden by the sunlight, are draped over Maedhros' shoulders. Their weight is comforting, anchoring him in a moment that has been a long time coming. But though they have waited hundreds of years for this, Maedhros feels like the waiting was right. After all, he reasons, nothing has really changed.

Maybe they were lovers long before they realized it themselves.

"'Morning," Fingon mumbles. He rolls lazily onto his back and groans as his body settles.

Pretty much the same only now, Maedhros can press his face into the crook of Fingon's neck and say "I love you."

"Me too," Fingon says, stretching his arms. "...Don't get up yet."

"We should." Maedhros props himself up on his right elbow. "You've only got so much daylight."

"I know."

They kiss, and this time its slow and careful because they both want to commit everything to memory. Maybe there will be hundreds of mornings like this one - Maedhros hopes, knows that he will do so much for that to happen. Maybe there won't. Idly, he traces patterns on Fingon's shoulder with his hand.

There is no sound but that of their breathing and the wind outside combining into one shared sigh.

Then Fingon speaks.

"Are you still thinking about what'll happen if the worst comes to pass? What will become of you?"

Maedhros says nothing, but Fingon looks into his eyes, presses himself up against a suddenly rigid body that speaks much more than any words. 

"I think you will end up in Valinor," he says softly. "In Mandos' halls. But even there, in time, I will find you. Like I would find you anywhere in the world, like I found you in Aqualondë, in Thangorodrim, in Beleriand."

Maedhros' only response is that he withdraws his hand and smiles - and this smile, like so much else, is only a pale imitation of something left in the far West. 

 

Fingon has to borrow some of Maedhros' clothing when they both get up. What little he brought with him is still with the rest of his baggage, and he doesn't want to greet his men in last night's outfit, followed by Maedhros, just in case they start guessing. Maedhros is not afraid of their judgment - he just feels like what happened should stay between the two of them alone. He kisses Fingon while he buttons his shirt, and Fingon lingers for a bit longer than he should given how much he has to do before he gets going again. 

Before he leaves, he looks to the letters.

"I'll be there," he says.

Maedhros steps closer to him, close enough that he can see both of their refections in the small pane of the window. He dosen't feel like they are seperated at all when he stands there, like they're blurred at the edges, bleeding into each other in the green glass. 

"I'll fight with you," Fingon continues. "And we'll celebrate afterwards."

"We will," Maedhros agrees. He pauses as if unsure of whether he should speak again, but he does, a sudden impulse spurring him along - "Everywhere," he says, "Everywhere, I'll look for your banner." 

_Like at Aqualondë, like at Thangorodrim, like on the battlefield. In Mandos, if that's where we both end up._

Fingon smiles and lowers his head, and Maedhros wants him to stay, wants to hold and have and yet his hands fall down at his side, the moment passes and Fingon clears his throat - "I think I've got to go now. As you said, we've only got so much daylight."

* * *

 

Maedhros follows him to the gates.

It's very cold. 

Maedhros watches the guests depart, though occasionally, he glances away from them. Instead, he looks at Maglor and gets the uncanny feeling that his brother  _knows_.

Eventually Maglor goes back inside, leaving Maedhros to watch the clouds as they grow darker in the sky. To the north is a battlefield and Fingon travels to the south and Maedhros holds the copper circlet in his hand.

The metal feels warm.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> In 468, the Union of Maedhros is formed.  
> In 472, Fingon is killed in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.


End file.
